The King,
p.1

Dedicated to all the girls with short hair and all the boys with long hair. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night, in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in

the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of

the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.

—Lawrence of Arabia

1

Somewhere in London 2013

KINGSLEY EDGE WAS PLAYING GOD TONIGHT. HE hoped the real God, if He did exist, wouldn’t mind. He’d told his driver to let him out a few blocks before his destination. Warm air, a late-April rain and a little English magic had sent a soft white fog twisting and f licking its tail down winding streets, and Kingsley wanted to enjoy it. He wore a long coat and carried a leather weekender bag over his shoulder. It was late, and although the city was still awake, it kept its voice down. The only sounds around him came from the soles of his shoes echoing against the wet and shining pavement and the distant murmur of city traffic.

When he arrived at the door he knocked without hesitation. After a pause, it opened.

They stared at each other a full five seconds before one of

them spoke. Kingsley took it upon himself to break the silence. “I’m the last person you were expecting to see again, oui?”

Kingsley asked.

He expected the shock and he expected the silence, but he

didn’t expect what happened next.

He didn’t expect Grace Easton to step onto the porch in

her soft gray robe and bare feet and wrap him in her arms. “If I’d known this is how the Welsh say ‘hello,’ I would have

mind. He’s an editor, though, not a writer. He thinks all writers are a bit mad.”

“I might have to agree with him,” Kingsley said. “You have

my congratulations on the book.”

She shuff led her pages, capped her pen. “Thank you, Kingsley. But I don’t believe you crossed an ocean simply to talk

about my poetry.”

“Even if it was inspired by a mutual friend of ours?” Kingsley said.

“Even so,” she admitted without shame. Good. Kingsley

might have despised her if she’d had any regrets, any shame for

what had happened. Instead, she’d come with an open heart

to their world, an open mind, and had returned home carrying a blessing inside her. “It’s back to school in a few months,

and I’m trying not to think about having to leave Fionn.” “He taught at our high school after he graduated. Did you

know that?”

She held her glass steady on the coffee table between them

as Kingsley poured the wine.

“He told me he used to teach. Said he liked it. I didn’t expect that from him.”

Kingsley picked up a framed photograph that sat on the

coffee table between them—a black-and-white picture of a

newborn infant boy sleeping on a white pillow.

“That’s one thing you can say for him,” Kingsley said, turning the photograph toward Grace. “He’s full of surprises.” She blushed beautifully and laughed quietly, and Kingsley

couldn’t help but join in her laugh.

“Is he why you’re here? Are you checking on Fionn for

him?”

“No,” Kingsley said. “Although he’ll never forgive me if I

don’t look in on him while I’m here.” Kingsley ached to see

the boy, but he had learned the hard way to never disturb a

sleeping baby.

“I’m only asking why you’re here out of curiosity. You never

need a reason to visit us. I assume everyone is well?” Grace

asked. “Juliette? Your daughter? Nora?”

“Juliette and Céleste are perfect as usual,” he said. “But

Nora, she lost her mother recently. A month ago, I believe.” “I had no idea. Zachary never said a word about it.” “She didn’t tell anyone until afterward. She disappeared on

us for two weeks.”

“Nora.” Grace sighed and shook her head. “Well, if she behaved like a normal person, she wouldn’t be Nora, would she?” “No. No, she wouldn’t be.” Kingsley laughed to himself.

“But she and her mother…they had a difficult relationship.” “Because of him?”

“Her mother hated him. I don’t use the word hate lightly,”

Kingsley said. “I think it was a peace offering to her mother

for Nora to go alone. And she couldn’t tell him. Nora ran

away to her mother’s once before, and he hunted her down

like the hound of hell.”

“I didn’t know that. But I can imagine he’s…persistent where

she’s concerned?”

“That is one way to put it.” Kingsley took a sip of his wine.

“She and her mother, they had unfinished business.” “That’s the worst-case scenario then, isn’t it? If you’re close

to your parents, you have no regrets when they pass away. If

you have no relationship, you have no grief. If you want to

be close, but you can’t be…”

“She took it very hard,” Kingsley said, knowing Nora well

enough to say that in good faith.

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” Grace said. “Maybe she should

come stay with us a few days. She loves being around Fionn.

And she and Zachary fight so much, she’ll forget all her sorrows, I promise.”

Kingsley wanted to laugh. Only Grace Easton would call

the woman who had slept—more than once—with her husband, offer her condolences on the loss of her mother and then invite her to stay in her home with Grace, her husband and

their infant son who was fathered by Nora’s lover. Did Grace have any idea what an extraordinarily odd woman

she was?

Then again, what room did Kingsley have to talk? “Apart from that, we’re all well. He’s well,” Kingsley said,

saving Grace the embarrassment of asking about him. “Good,” Grace said with a smile. “I never know… He’s the

easiest man in the world to talk to…and the most difficult man

to read. Rather amazes me that Nora’s been with him over

twenty years and is as sane as she is. Zachary was my professor when we fell in love, and I thought I’d go insane trying

to keep that secret from my friends, my family, the school. To

be with a priest for twenty years…”

“No one is more amazed than I that they’ve lasted. The

sanity part is up for debate, but you can’t question the love.

Not anymore. And he hasn’t made it easy for her, and she…

Well, I don’t have to tell you anything about Nora, do I?” Grace grinned broadly.

“No,” she said. “No, you don’t.” She took a drink of the

Syrah, and her eyes widened in delight.

“Your son is quite the vintner. This is marvelous.” “I told you so,” Kingsley said, taking a sip of his own wine.

The Syrah was good, an excellent vintage, strong and potent.

As much as Kingsley loved the taste, he found it hard to drink

sometimes. The knot of pride in his throat made it difficult

to swallow.

“Zachary was very impressed with Nico when they met.

He’s what? Twenty-five and he owns and runs his own vineyard?”

“I think about how I was at twenty-five, what I was doing

with my life, and I can’t believe he came from me.” “I can believe it,” Grace said, giving him a luminescent

smile.

“I won’t keep you up all night showing you pictures of my

children,” Kingsley said. He had pictures of both Nico and

Céleste with him, and he was seconds away from pulling them

out. “I’m only here for a few hours before I catch my next

f light. But I did come for a reason.”

“Should I be concerned?” Grace asked.

“Non, pas du tout,” Kingsley said with a wave of his hand.

“Forgive me. French wine brings out my French.” “I speak some,” she said. “You haven’t lost me yet.” “Bon,” he said and paused for another drink. “I have something to tell you. A story. And I can’t tell you why I’m telling

you the story until after the story.”

“I see…” she said, although Kingsley knew she didn’t. “May

I ask what the story concerns?”

Kingsley reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket.

From it he pulled a crisp white envelope thick with documents

sealed with wax. The wax was imprinted with what appeared

to be a number eight inside a circle. Kingsley placed it on the

table between his glass of wine and Grace’s.

“The story is about that,” Kingsley said, nodding toward

the envelope. “And I can tell you the long version which is

the true version or I can tell you a shorter, sweeter version.

I’m happy to tell you either. But you decide.”

“The long version, of course,” she said. “Tell me everything I should know even if you don’t think I want to hear it.” “Everything…dangerous word.” Kingsley sat back in the

chair, and Grace leaned forward. She looked at him with a

child’s eagerness. “But if you insist. The more you know about

us, the better it will be if…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t have to, because he

saw the understanding in Grace’s eyes. She knew the end of the sentence he hadn’t spoken, and her nod saved him the pain

of saying the words that no one yet had dared to utter aloud. If Fionn takes after his father…

“The story starts twenty years ago,” Kingsley said, conjuring the memories he had tried to bury. But he’d buried them

alive and alive they remained. “And it takes place in Manhattan. And although you don’t know yet why I’m telling you